Kinners vs the Phantom
by Kinners
Summary: As if traipsing around with gods and highly-functioning sociopaths wasn't enough, I insist on commandeering the Tardis for the purpose of cornering a known murderer who may be suffering from PTSD, schizophrenia, and acute lovesickness. I may or may not survive. Read on to find out!


_Don't look back._

 _Whatever you do, do not look behind you. If you were to do so you would see an illusion of what you think of home, but in reality it's only a husk of what was. Really, one as acquainted with illusions as you should recognize one when you see one. You're not one to have a home anyways, so it's no surprise that the place where you resided for the past years turned out to be one of haunting rather than sanctuary. Let alone the abominable people that were there. They thought_ you _tormented_ them? _Forget them, none of them deserve you. No exceptions._

 _I hope you aren't thinking about turning around. If you do, you know that it will only make this harder. You will try to find a reason to return, and if that fails, what's to stop you from inventing one? Of course you've invented plenty of worthwhile things in your time, but even you can't succeed at_ that _. You would try anyway, despite all logic, and with whatever excuse you think of you would work up the nerve to return. You might prevail. You might start to justify it. You might start to second-guess what you're doing now. You might think that you_ can't _leave. You might even begin to think that by leaving you were abandoning something, or heaven forbid someone._

 _All lies. Just keep going._

 _You couldn't resist going back if you were to turn around. You know this. If you go back you will die. This you know also. So why is this a struggle? It should be a no-brainer, like sightreading in C. You know what, just stop thinking about it altogether, because if you do you cannot win. No? Then you leave me no choice. Why do you refuse to listen to the voice that has kept you alive? Honestly, you need to stop. What are you doing, imagining what could go right? Oh, please. Since when are you an optimist? How about imagining what could go_ wrong? _Don't go back there. Your imagination will tell you that you will find redemption if you turn around, but such grace is nowhere to be found for you, and especially not at the opera house. Do not go back. I am saying this for your sake. There is nothing for you there but hell._

 _What are you doing?_

 _Don't-!_

"Hey!"

Giving a start of terror, he burst into a breakneck sprint. His inner turmoil had been answered for him with one word. He had stalled too long, and now with the discovery of that one lucky sighthound the entire mob would come baying at his heels in moments. The only thing to do now was to lose his chaser, and forever forget what had happened this dark night.

 _I was right, wasn't I?_

"Wait!"

Ironically enough, the plea drove him to do the exact opposite. Turning a corner he quickened his pace, careful to keep his footing despite the rain-slicked streets. If he slipped and went through a puddle the noise would only make him easier to find, and his no-longer silent footsteps were bad enough as a beckon. The ones of his pursuer echoed behind him hauntingly, the walls and corridors of the city serving the acoustics of each resounding beat. The presto tempo urged him on like a whip snap, a constant reminder of his enemy's closing in. With the hunter came certain doom.

"Stop!"

The voice sounded fainter, but the footsteps still came at a relentless pace. He scowled and kept running. Now that he had realized that he should have hearkened to the bitter voice, he was beyond the machinations of his idle dreams of happy endings. He wouldn't stop, not for the world, not for Christine. If he stopped now it was all over, as surely as it would have been if he had went back to the opera house. That dreaded, blasted place where the blissful memories were only bait to lead him into the baleful jaws of the present. Spitefully he looked away at the brief sight of his moonlit face in the looking-glass surface of a pool of rain, speeding past it with a grimace. If he hated himself so with all his knowledge, how much more would mere mortals loathe him? He would not go back. Not for anything.

Not even for her?

"HEY!"

As he turned a corner he caught a bright glimmer in her hand. At the sight of the blade his adrenaline picked up and propelled him blindly forward, away from the light's danger and into the safety of the dark. In the shadows he could lose her and be safe.

Yet it was as if fate knew better.

To his bewildered horror, he had run straight into a bleak alley. Nothing but glistening black stone faced him, so sleek it mocked him with his own reflection. The call of his assailant reverberated between the closely set walls, as authoritative as the vengeful hunting cry of a lioness's triumph. He dared not move, as if he could escape the huntress's vision by not attracting her eyes with motion. Hearing the trained clarity in that voice he cringed, wishing with a pang of longing that he had an Angel of Music of his own to whisk him away from the scourging of this cruel captor.

Alas, she had fled. Flown away in his most desperate hour of need.

 _My Angel…_

"You left your mask."

If he could become any more motionless, he did then. So that was what that flash of white had been. Not a weapon, but a disguise. But how had she come to possess it? He had left it behind in his lair, along with everything. Had she been with those who were bent on lynching him as they ransacked his old abode? If so, she must know who he was. He stifled his instinct to run, for that would surely reveal his face to her and confirm her suspicion. He must tread carefully, or he could never be free of his past. Slowly, deliberately, he gathered up his breath and words.

"I don't know what you're talking about, foolish girl," he replied with a faked edge, before his fear could give him away. "Away with you."

"Sure you do," There wasn't the barest hint of hate in her voice, but he couldn't bring himself to trust sounds so soon after having mistrusted the most beautiful voice on the earth. "You're the Phantom, right? Of the Opera? This is your mask, it must be."

At her natural invocation of his dread title his theory was confirmed. Not daring to believe it, he steeled himself as if about to jump from a rooftop. Praying she wouldn't see his face, he stole a glance over his left shoulder-his good side. He didn't catch a glimpse of her, but he'd seen the immaculate white half-mask by the light of the waxing moon. His mask. She spoke the truth.

"So it is." he said finally, after a long pause of indecision. A longer silence followed. Judging by her awkward silence she had expected a less stoic reaction.

"Um…," she stammered. In a surprising show of patience he allowed her another attempt to say something relevant. "You can have it. If you want. I thought you would, that's why I got it for you."

He mistook her bland candor for subtle sarcasm. He reacted thusly.

"What makes you think I would want that back?" he asked in a venomously deliberate diction. He could sense her quailing behind him. What had this street arab hoped to win against him?

"You'll need it, won't you?" she ventured. With the loss of his own innocence over the tormented years, he had forgotten just how naive a child could be.

"For what?" With a pang of well-concealed fear he realized he didn't know the answer to his own question. "I'll never show my face again, if I even live to such an opportunity. This totem of peace you bring me is only a cruel memento of my deception. The Phantom is no more. Leave me in peace."

"But it's _your mask!_ " she insisted. His fist clenched at the memory of what that mask stood for. "You can't just leave it, any more than you can abandon Christine! She's your-"

"Hear me, you waif!" he exploded in anger. That weeping wound was too fresh to pry at just yet, much less by a stranger who knew too much. "From this day forth, that name means nothing to me! I am well within my domain to abandon her as she has done to me. Do not speak of what you do not understand."

"But…." At a vehement over-the-shoulder glare from him her words died stillborn. He turned his face back towards the wall and hung his head with a low sigh, emotionally exhausted. How swiftly the red rage dissipates into a violet sorrow. In truth, he didn't want to leave Christine. More than anything he wanted to run to her, to take refuge in her kindness from the tempestuous fury of the mob that hunted him even now. But what choice did he have now? He was a fox on the run from bloodthirsty hounds and trampling horses. What could have been his most trusted haven was now a haunting cell. He could see the bars in his mind even now, hear the raucous cacophony of the laughter and screams, his only applause...

"I think I _do_ understand."

He almost whirled on her then and there.

"Do you, now?" he sneered in a dangerously soft voice. " _You?_ "

"Well, maybe," she ventured, swiftly donning a mask of humility of her own. "I'm only speculating. I think...I think you're just frightened. That's why you did all those horrible things that only made it worse. Afraid of losing her, afraid of showing yourself, afraid of people…."

In the silence that followed his jaw hung agape in awe. Everything that she had said was true. For half a moment he wondered if he had been watched even as he had been watching. His deepest, darkest fear _was_ people, even as they feared him. Their vicious pack mentality, which would stop at nothing to tear him apart if they ever saw his weakness, had always been his most real danger. Even in the circus where societal anomalies such as him were expected he had not been completely safe, and now he feared he never could be. That was why he had used their fear of the dark to protect himself, all while he cowered. He needed them to be more afraid than he was so that they might leave him alone, but thinking of the mob on his heels now he wondered if that was possible. Phantom or no, he held no power next to the might of the masses. If they willed something to happen, it would. That power was absolutely terrifying. He was scared to death.

"...won't you turn around?"

What if _she_ was one of them?

"For what?" he intoned, reigning in his fear just in time to act unmoved. If she thought that he would trust her innocence enough to let his guard down, she obviously didn't know as much about him and Daae as she thought she did.

"Why, so I can see you," He rolled his eyes in contempt. Such a banal response would not fool him. "It's rather odd to continue a conversation with your back to the person you're talking to, isn't it?"

"If you know who I am, then you know exactly why I refuse to turn around." he responded coldly. His efforts to stay calm evaporated at her next outburst.

"Aha! So you ARE afraid!" she crowed triumphantly. His fear revitalized at the discovery as surely as if he had been encountered in the wings by a wide-eyed dancer.

"I never said that," he scoffed, secretly miffed at her accuracy.

"I know, but you don't need to say something for it to be true," she said indomitably. _Curse this child and her infallible wisdom._ He had nothing to say to stop her flow of words. Swiftly it became a relentless torrent.

"...Christine never said she loved you, did she?" He wished he did. He wished _she_ did. "But you should have known better. The question isn't how could she, it's how _couldn't_ she?"

At that moment every bitter note of hurt in his soul crescendoed into a sforzando roar.

" _Who could ever love THIS!?_ "

He turned to face her, gruesome features twisted further than ever with hate.

As they studied each other, he found to his surprise and mild chagrin that his surge of emotion was already fading. She was not at all the antagonist he pictured her to be. She was only a lass, no older than Madame Giry's little girl. Demure features and sensibly short hair, yet mysterious eyes whose color seemed to shift before his eyes. Only a girl. So how did she speak with such erudite grace, and why did he still fear her as one of the enemy?

To his instant outrage, she began to chuckle.

"You think my loathsome countenance funny?!" he snarled wrathfully. She startled a little at his volume, but otherwise gave no indication of guilt or guile.

"No, not at all!" she assured. He narrowed his eyes at her in suspicion. "I'm not laughing at you. I'm laughing at _them_."

"What them?" he growled skeptically. She merely shrugged, as comfortable as if she didn't suspect him at all of the murderous thoughts that were beginning to stir in his head.

"Well, everyone, I suppose," she said matter-of-factly. He paused. "It's just...the rumors are absolutely ridiculous. They all say that you have the face of the most wretched gargoyle, twisted and half-melted as if by the fires of hell. They say that it's bad enough to make flowers wilt and mirrors shatter. All rubbish! For one thing, it's not even your whole face, and the other half looks rather comely to me. And as for the bad part…"

"Surely you cringe to look at it, do you not?" he interjected at her hesitation. She knitted her brows thoughtfully, studying his grotesque disfiguration carefully. But why? Why did she pretend that his obvious wretchedness was unclear? It had to be some treacherous ploy, it must be. Such purity does not exist outside of fairy tales. She must be one of them, mustn't she?

He studied her kind face with bated breath.

"...no, actually," she admitted softly. He scarcely dared to believe he had heard it. "You would think that, but no. It's just...not bad. Not good, either, but definitely not bad. Underwhelming, even. I could get used to that face. Of course I can't say for the rest of the world, but they haven't seen you either, have they?"

He was so thunderstruck that he didn't respond for what felt like an aeon. In one breath she had single-handedly dissipated the weight he had carried for years. The oppressive yoke that had hung on his shoulders since the dawn of his existence had been broken by an innocent's truth. For the first time he felt as light as a perfect staccato. He felt like he was realizing finally that he was making too much effort to breathe. All of a sudden the world was distant. Its torments were forgotten, left behind to suffer gravity's fate. But not him. He was free. Free at last.

"And we all know how intelligent _that_ lot are…"

"I concur," he agreed absentmindedly, still reeling over her words. He had every reason to believe her. He wanted to more than almost anything. But for his sake, he had to doubt. Too many years of distrust and abuse had twisted his perspective as horribly as his face.

"...but how can I know that you speak the truth?" he inquired, drawing himself up taller and staring hard through her as though daring her to bluff. She shrugged again, which was either dreadfully annoying or surprisingly endearing.

"I would have no motive to lie to you, would I?" she asked rhetorically. _Yes you do, you incorrigible twit,_ argued the pessimistic mind that somehow lived still. "Perhaps if I wanted to win your trust in order to betray you to those who would destroy you, but they think you're dead anyway. Also, I've only just met you, and my sweet disposition prohibits me from betraying anyone, let alone those I've just met."

"You are kind indeed, and quick to give your loyalty," he observed candidly. She spoke like a knight rather than a child...yet child she was. "Is that not dangerous for a girl of your age? When are you on guard?"

" _Ha!_ " she exclaimed, as if the notion of being guarded were the most ridiculous she'd ever heard. "I'm not afraid of the world, any more than you are afraid of the dark. We know too much to be afraid. Besides, monsters don't exist here, and even if they do, you're certainly not one of them. I can tell."

"But…" He opted not to argue about her knowledge of the world, but there was one point he struggled to accept. "My face...would not that condemn me?"

"You cannot recognize monsters by their appearances," she stated with an eyebrow raised, as if that were obvious. "Only by their deeds. Didn't you know that?"

At this he stiffened resignedly, sure he had been caught this time.

"...if what you say is true, then I am one," he lamented grimly. Despite having told himself so for longer than he could remember, echoing the words of hatred heard from without, he winced inside. "I have killed, and plotted evil for my own hungers. Although I did not prevail, the sin is mine, and I cannot blot it out, as much as I wish I could."

 _Forgive me now, you blasted half-grown crusader,_ hissed his pessimism again. _Thought she could kill me with kindness, didn't she, Erik? But you know better. You can't escape me._

But she gave him that look again.

"...no. You're still not a monster."

" _How?!_ " he demanded in a sudden surge of emotion. His confusion had explosively culminated into a second pyre of anger and suspicion. There was no way anyone could be so accepting of something so loathsome. It was not possible. Absolutely _im_ possible. Whatever she was, as he had no means of discovering her intent that he could be sure of, he was certain that it wasn't anything benevolent. This final test, this point of no return, would decide her fate. If she couldn't answer him perfectly, then he would know that she meant some form of evil. And he would know that he must do away with her.

But the forgiving, almost-sad look she gave him was too honest for even the vitriolic voice within.

"Monsters don't feel guilt."

Once again, she had rendered him speechless with wonder. And all in half a phrase, perfectly worded in simplicity. Suddenly he realized that with his hasty conclusion he had sank to the very level of those he hated and feared. He had assumed that she was malevolent because he could not understand her, and on the grounds of that unproven theory he knew that he would not have hesitated to kill her. Yes, he had killed before, but he had been putting up with the idiocy that was Buquet and Piangi for years and knew exactly why they deserved to die. With this child he had come to plotting murder within minutes of having met her. He had come closer than ever to becoming a fresh follower of the very thing he loathed. Horrified at the dark sin he had almost repeated, he felt compelled to make things right.

"You speak with much wisdom for one so young," he said quietly, gaining confidence and volume as he went on. "What might be your name?"

"Kinners," she greeted, a smile breaking across her face. She even went so far as to shake his hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you finally!"

"Likewise," he replied cordially, deciding against inquiring about the 'finally' part. "You obviously know me, however, so I shan't waste time with an introduction."

With that she nodded consent. His gaze was drawn to the mask in her hand, catching the last rays of moonlight. So many memories held in that false face, not all of which were pleasant. That mask had been with him through every time he'd been with Christine-almost every time. Yet when she had seen him without it on….

"May I?" he asked politely.

"Of course. It's yours, after all." she affirmed concisely. She freely gave, yet when he took it in his own hand he could bring himself only to stare at it. It was still warm from her hands. Its smooth perfection seemed so inviting, despite its haunting properties. How many times had he gazed upon Christine longingly through the eye of that mask?

How many times had she looked right back?

"Perhaps you are right," he mused under his breath. Kinners gave no indication of hearing him. "You have proven to be right in many things, but as for this..."

Taking a deep breath as if about to plunge into icy water, he turned back to the wall. He pressed the mask to his face as he fastened it with the other hand. Inhaling and opening his eyes again, the first thing he saw was himself. The soaked wall was as reflective as glass. As was the semi-intended effect, he looked like a ghastly death's head. But anything was better than his true appearance. Behind the familiar sheet he felt safe, almost superior. Suddenly he could be something greater than himself without having to worry about his true nature bleeding through. He returned to face her with a reinvigorated confidence.

"Ah! I suppose I did miss it, after all," he said as he turned. Seeing Kinners through the familiar eye of the mask practically put her in a new light. Once again he felt all the more ridiculous for having suspected her of ill will. She gave him another radiant smile.

"You see?" He allowed himself a small smile to mirror hers, to humor her if nothing else. "Not such a cruel reminder, is it? Wouldn't you rather have any memory of her than none, despite what pain that remembrance might bring?"

"...right again," he admitted. No one could regret hearing such a voice as Christine's. For her sake he would remember. "You have convinced me. I shall not take my leave of her quite yet...but Christine need not know it."

"That sounds wise," she sustained with half a nod. "She might panic if she knew you lived still."

"Oh, tell me about it," he muttered, upon recalling her frustrating skittishness. "I don't dare show my face, mask or no. But then how am I to convince her that I am repentant, if and when I reveal myself again? She still thinks me a madman, and rightfully so after all I've done." Thinking of his morbid reflection in the sleek wall, he mentally cringed.

"Well, if you want my advice, it is honesty," she replied. Okay, now he really was cringing. "No more of the mind tricks you used in the past. She is much more likely to trust you if she knows that you trust her enough to be yourself. Same principle goes for love, or so I've found. I know it's a scary thing, but lots of things aren't as dangerous as they look, present company included."

His brows furrowed at such a clever metaphor. Yet it seemed paradoxical to him. Hadn't she just told him that he wasn't as repulsive as the world made him out to be? Or did she judge the mettle of a danger on a different scale? His mind went back to what she had said about the world and the dark.

 _'We know too much to be afraid.'_

Her meaning dawned on him as the resolution to a gripping cadence.

"You truly are a wonder," he extolled unashamedly. At that she blushed and looked away, tucking her hair behind her ear bashfully. "Your wisdom astounds me. Surely you cannot be what you look to be. From whence have you came?"

At this those mysterious eyes clouded like the fog on the opera lake.

"Unfortunately I can't tell you that, for you would not believe me." she replied cryptically. Narrowing his eyes in curiosity, the Phantom wordlessly bidded her to go on. She returned his silent inquisition with an impassive face etched in stone. Yet he stared harder still and would not relent.

 _Oh no you don't, you mysterious mademoiselle. You owe me an explanation._

All this transpired in a heartbeat, suspended like a still caesura. And then she gave him the barest shadow of a smile.

"...but I will tell you that I am not of this world."

Double-taking, he ran his gaze over her with a more scrutinizing eye. She had predicted his reaction correctly. It couldn't be, could it? However improbable, the notion that was budding in the back of his mind proved difficult to disprove the more he observed her. She was wise far beyond her years, yet retained a whole and unblemished innocence. But what if she wasn't as young as she looked? There seemed in her kaleidoscope eyes to be an understanding that could only be described as ancient. Not to mention her unparalleled and almost personal knowledge of him, knowledge which he knew to be nigh-unattainable because of his own caution and isolation. And above all, despite her apparent youth, she carried with her a mysterious radiance, an untouchable beauty that seemed superhuman. All at once her childish facade seemed to be thinning before his eyes, to reveal an aura of something greater than anything he'd ever seen.

Something heavenly.

"No..!" he breathed in awe, stepping back as if fearing to be smited. She raised her eyebrows at him, the shadow growing into a half-smile. She was goading him on to the conclusion he just barely couldn't believe. But all disbelief was shattered at what she said next.

"You were praying for an angel, weren't you?"

There was no way she could have known that if she were anything less than that.

"Don't," she insisted at his motion to kneel. "Treat me like a superior, and you fear me and cease to know me. Please, call me your friend and that will be enough."

"Very well then," he said in a daze, still reeling from the revelation. "I am glad to do so. I have few in this world, and you seem to be one of the best that can be made."

She smiled and looked down, reddening once again like the oncoming dawn. So powerful, yet so humble...she could only be an angel. How vain of him to think that they didn't exist. Christine's exploitable notions had to have come from somewhere, hadn't they? But if she was an angel, what could he be?

Looking up over the rooftops of Paris, he began to see a yellow glow in the east behind her.

"I'd best be going," he lamented, wondering how long he had tarried in conversation. "I daresay it's been a long night for everyone. And I must be sure for myself that Christine is well."

"Oh!" she exclaimed upon turning and observing the time for herself. "I'm terribly sorry, but I fear I must be off post-haste. I've been gone far too long. The Doctor must have gotten himself into some trouble, as he is wont to do."

"Not the same Doctor that saved mine and Christine's lives from a Locrian soundhound?" inquired the Phantom in disbelief. Kinners shrugged and gave a lopsided smile.

"I can't think of any other doctor that would do such a thing," she admitted. The Phantom gave a rare grin at another mention of his mysterious friend-one that was even more so than himself.

"You must greet him for me," he asked as she half-turned to the streets outside. "We go back a ways. He's another one of those few friends I mentioned."

"He's a good one to have," she recalled with a knowing smile. Her face brightened to the present, giving him a final wave.

"Goodbye, Phantom!"

His dreaded epithet had never been used with such honest joy.

Sighing with a content and lightheartedness he hadn't experienced for eons, he watched her run off just as the sun blossomed directly above her head. He squinted and flinched at the light's sudden onset, its unfamiliarity setting him at unease. But at the unremembered warmth of its rays, he untensed. He hadn't even felt the sunlight for what could have been years, let alone seen it. Despite himself, his lips curled into a quiet, genuine smile. All this time he'd thought the daylight harsh and caustic, like a brass instrument playing a note too high for its range. It was just the opposite. Its heat was not a burning one, but a soothing comfort that melted away the icecap that had formed around his soul. Its light not searing and blinding, but gently and clearly illuminating the dark recesses of his heart. He let the gold wash over him, unfreezing the blood in his veins and thus stoking him to life. This glory he felt was inexpressible, putting his whole life into perspective in one glimmering moment. He felt perfection not unlike what he'd experienced with every line Christine would sing….

...if only she could see him now.

Half-chuckling to himself at the flitting notion, he turned back to the wall more out of habit than actual fear of what lay outside. Just as he was about to vanish himself, he heard familiar footsteps turn the corner. Even as he turned she reappeared around the corner of the alley with a child's grin spread across her face.

"One more thing!" she called, running down the slim passage toward him. At the alarming pace she had taken he had to stifle his instinct to run. Once within range she practically pounced on him-

-to give him the most whopping hug he had ever had.

In fact, it was only his third.

At that moment he rather inconveniently froze up without his own volition, but evidently she wasn't offended because when she let go of him she was still beaming fit to rival the present sunrise.

"You're number three on the list."

With that Kinners was gone, leaving the Phantom to unravel the befuddling statement himself.


End file.
